The North Guard commander gave a reluctant nod. “And the assault, Highness? I would still beg the honour of leading it.”
Lyrna scanned the army, the Realm Guard and Nilsaelin infantry drawn up in good order, Antesh’s archers forming up at their rear. The cavalry patrolled the flanks in a wide arc sweeping around as far as the river to block all avenues of escape. All done with but a few orders and no formal plan.
“That won’t be necessary, my lord,” she told Adal before turning to Al Hestian. “The army will hold in place. Send word to bring up the ballistae.”
The Arisai continued to make small-scale sorties as the ballistae were hauled into place, a few having retained enough horses to mount a charge to the west, attempting to break through the cavalry screen only to be met by Renfaelin knights and cut down to a man. Lyrna also received reports of others attempting to swim the river, the few making it to the far bank providing welcome sport for the waiting Nilsaelin lancers.
Alornis reported the ballistae ready by late afternoon. As ever, working with her devices seemed to bring some animation to her features and she stood by, watching with a faintly prideful expression as the last engine was trundled into place alongside its fellows. The small corps of artisans who served the ballistae worked their various levers and windlasses until every one was armed and ready, the crossed bowstaves all drawn back, waiting.
“At your discretion, my lord,” Lyrna said to Antesh. The Lord of Archers nodded and lifted his bow above his head. The archers, arrayed immediately behind the line of ballistae, all raised their bows to a high elevation, strings drawn back behind the ear for maximum range. Antesh lowered his arm and the arrow storm began. The sky was still light enough to follow the dark mass of arrows as they rose and fell onto the temple, a black rain continuing unabated as Lyrna had ordered every possible shaft scavenged from the battlefield. She could see the blood still glistening on many of the arrowheads launched by the longbows. The archers seemed tireless, many grunting with the effort of drawing and loosing at such a rate, but their faces all set in determined hatred. Apparently slaughtering so many Free Swords hadn’t been enough to sate their vengeance.
Lyrna used her spyglass to scan the temple, seeing an Arisai fall as he attempted to run for one of the pyramidal god-houses, pierced by three arrows a foot short of shelter, two of his comrades falling onto his body a heartbeat later.
The answer was not long in coming, a great shout of joyous abandon rising from the temple before they came streaming forth. All cohesion had been forgotten now and they simply charged at the line of ballistae in a disordered red tide. Lyrna waited until the leaders had cleared the steps before giving the order for the ballistae to loose, the range having been narrowed to less than fifty paces. The effect was remarkable, the leading Arisai cut down by an invisible scythe, those following tumbling over the bodies or spinning from the impact of the second volley. In some cases a bolt would pierce an Arisai with enough force to continue on through to claim one of his comrades. Despite the losses however, the Arisai’s charge retained sufficient momentum to come within twenty paces of the ballistae, at which point Antesh’s archers moved forward, lowering their aim and unleashing another arrow storm that halted the red host completely.
“Highness,” Al Hestian said, “I believe the time is right.”
She nodded and he gestured to the cluster of buglers nearby, sending them running towards the opposite flanks of the army, the call for a charge of cavalry pealing forth. Antesh walked the line of archers barking orders to cease, though some continued to loose with frenzied disregard for orders and had to be forcibly restrained. Fortunately, both archers and ballistae had stopped by the time Fief Lord Arendil led his knights from the left flank and Brother Sollis the Sixth Order and the Realm Guard cavalry from the right. The surviving Arisai met them with what could only be described as matchless valour, leaping to bring riders down, cutting the legs from under the horses, fighting to the last, voicing their joyous mirth to the end.
• • •
Count Marven drifted in and out of wakefulness as she sat with him, holding a damp cloth to his burning brow when his distress blossomed into weeping panic. Brother Kehlan had been free with redflower in treating the Battle Lord, his face grim when Lyrna questioned the wisdom of giving him so much.
